From the Desk of Garrison KeillorA prolific writer, Garrison Keillor is a frequent contributor to newspapers and magazines throughout the United States and abroad. To the right, you find a selection of articles published since 1989, and a few unpublished pieces.

Faith at the Speed of LifeFrom Time MagazineJune 14, 1999

"Just in terms of allocation
of time resources, religion is not very efficient. There's
a lot more I could be doing on a Sunday morning."

—William H. Gates III

Bill Gates was the richest man in America and after he had
gained a good deal of the world, God sent him e-mail:

Beloved Bill: I saw how you allocated your time
resources last Sunday morning and was not impressed. Riding
a stationary bike? Watching people talk on The Men's Channel
about triglycerides and p.s.a. counts? Shifting a half-billion
into Abu Dhabi municipals? You ever hear what happened to
the rich man who was so rough on Lazarus? I caused a general
protection fault and he has been offline for centuries. Anything
you'd like to talk about? I'm here. Your Creator, God.

Bill Gates typed out a reply: Dear God, Wow.
Omniscience. Cool. But how do I know you're omnipotent too?
Gates --- and the moment he clicked on Send, the entire Microsoft
campus in Redmond, Washington, went dark. The a.c. shuddered
to a stop. He heard the keening and wailing of employees grieving
for lost data. His office got hot and stuffy, and sweat dripped
off his nose. Acrid smells drifted in. The floor was covered
with billions of microscopic ones and zeros. Digital had become
analog. He heard the clatter of hooves and stuck his head
out in the hall: a herd of crazed swine wearing employee IDs
trotted past, little pink eyes aglow, squealing. He heard
chanting and found, in the Executive Data Center next door,
monks in black robes patiently copying his e-mail.

When power was restored, a message flashed on
his screen: B.B. That was only the screen saver. I can put
a virus in your software that will bring the Information Age
to a shuddering halt. I did a big flood, I did frogs and flies
and firstborn children and I can also do viruses. Or I can
do love and redemption. Your move. God.

It didn't take Microsoft long to recover from the blackout.
The dromedaries were sent to a theme park. The monks were
retrained. Under the Americans with Disability Act, the swine
had to be kept in their current jobs, but most of them were
vice-presidents and so it didn't matter.

Bill Gates ran "Sabbath" through a
database search and found that it was the day on which God
rested after He programmed the world out of chaos in six days,
the fastest start-up in history (also the first). He commanded
his Designated Population Group to keep the Seventh Day holy
and dumped a lot of pretty detailed other legal stuff on them,
like what to eat.

He wrote: Dear God, Can we talk?---- and suddenly
was dumped into a chat room.

LUCI: I see that Bill Gates, that bug-eyed little
weasel, is ignoring you. Want me to deal with him?

THE LORD GOD: It takes longer to get smart guys
up to speed. But he'll get there.

LUCI: The guy is a closed circuit. Let me at
him.

THE LORD GOD: Let's see how it goes next week.

BILL GATES: Hey, guys. It's me. The aforementioned
weasel.

But God had signed off.

LUCI: Hey, Billy. How'd you like to own the
phone company? I can get it for you wholesale.

The next day, Microsoft developed Stained-Glass
Windows, the most advanced spiritual software ever. The user
could get an entire worship experience including Scripture,
sermon, and sacraments in ten minutes flat. Bill Gates sent
God a copy by e-mail attachment and got no reply.

The next Sunday morning, Bill Gates went into
Stained-Glass Windows and the Scripture reading was a screechy
passage from Jeremiah, and the sermon was very anti-money,
anti-entrepreneurship, and it went on and on and on, and when
he clicked onto the sacraments, he saw This program has performed
an immoral function and will be shut down and in that moment
he went blind.

He was on his stationary bike, the keyboard
on his lap, a glass of cranberry juice in one hand. He did
not cry out. He breathed deeply. He managed his panic. He
swung a leg over and dismounted and set the keyboard and juice
on the floor. He made his way to the door. So far, so good.
He navigated to the dressing room and showered and dressed
and headed upstairs to his office.

It's simply a new program, blindness,
he thought. You work with it, you figure it out, and pretty
soon it becomes second nature.

Lovingly selected from the earliest archives of A Prairie Home Companion, this heirloom collection represents the music from earliest years of the now legendary show: 1974–1976. With songs and tunes from jazz pianist Butch Thompson, mandolin maestro Peter Ostroushko, Dakota Dave Hull and the first house band, The Powdermilk Biscuit Band (Adam Granger, Bob Douglas and Mary DuShane).